Autres Temps, Autres Mœurs
by Meer-Katnip
Summary: Clothes maketh the man, he thinks. So, for one day in this quaint little castle on the outskirts of nowhere, he takes out his old cane and black jacket and pretends to be himself again. (Set in The Magician's Apprentice)


**Author's Note:** Spoilers for _The Magician's Apprentice_. I was inspired, okay? Also mild reference to _Doctor Who and the Pirates,_ but it's not necessary to have listened to that at _all._

* * *

 _ **Autres Temps, Autres Mœurs**_

* * *

 _Clothes maketh the man,_ he thinks. So, for one day in this quaint little castle on the outskirts of nowhere, he takes out his old cane and black jacket, and pretends to be himself again.

Bors gives him strange looks when he starts calling his friend 'my boy' and _hmmm_ ing a lot, but he doesn't really care. It's childish, he knows, to be playing make-believe in the final days of his life, but as he had once told someone, what's the point in growing up if you can't be childish sometimes?

* * *

The next day, he feels exposed in his usual magician's outfit, so he dresses up like a cosmic hobo, and impresses everyone with his skill at playing the recorder. With 'skill' being a relative term, of course.

* * *

The day after that, he manages, somehow, to drive a yellow car with 'WHO1' as its license plate straight out of the TARDIS. He gives the children in the castle rides around the grounds, with his opera cape fluttering in the wind. He had forgotten how fast the old car could go, and squealed just as loudly as the kids as they shot across the field, past the recently constructed well and visitor centre, and into the forest.

* * *

"Magician," says Bors on the fourth day of his blast to the past. He barely look up from where he's carefully winding an overly long scarf around his neck.

"Yes?" he replies.

The large man eyes him with concern. "Are you… quite alright? You seem different, lately."

He grins- a wide, Bohemian grin- and says, "I'm perfectly alright." He plunges a hand into his pocket and draws out a white paper bag. "Jelly baby?"

* * *

In the evening, he emerges from his room with a stick of celery pinned to his lapel and a small red ball, and proceeds to introduce the game of cricket to this world for the first time in history. It goes down surprisingly well, considering that they have to improvise with swords stuck to the ground as wickets. His team wins by a long way, and everyone heads back to the castle happy and chattering.

The day after that, he takes over the kitchen, shoving everyone out of the way, even as he wears a coat that would make Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor one jealous. He carts a wheelbarrow in from his timeship, filled to the brim with anachronistic ingredients and utensils, and sings something remarkably similar to Gilbert and Sullivan as he works.

* * *

"- _in short, in every matter that a Time Lord really should hold dear-"_ he hums as he melts some chocolate and adds the cocoa with a flourish. " _-I am the very model of a Gallifreyan Bucca-_ hm, carrot juice, carrot juice, carrot juice, where can I get some of that?"

When he emerges later, he's balancing two large chocolate cakes in one hand, and a pitcher of carrot juice in the other, and shares those at the feast that night.

* * *

On Thursday (or at least it _feels_ like a Thursday, it has a Thursday-ish sort of feel) he deepens his Scottish accent and rolls his _r_ s more than usual, swinging his red-handled umbrella for effect. He teaches the children how to make simple explosives, ignoring the disapproving stares of their parents, and challenges Bors to a game of chess. Bors admits that he's never played chess before.

"What do you mean, you've never played chess?" he exclaims incredulously. "I'm going to have to teach you, you know."

Within an hour, Bors has won all three of their matches, and mastered the game entirely.

"All right," he acknowledges grudgingly. "Maybe you're not such an idiot after all." He pauses. "Maybe we could try Parcheesi?"

* * *

The sound of opera music that won't be composed for at least a few hundred years fills the castle on a day that is probably Friday- _Madame Butterfly,_ to be precise. Today, he sits in the main hall, cross-legged on the top of a table, and tells the fortunes of anyone who asks for them. His predictions are pretty accurate, and everyone enjoys his company- although they do wonder about his odd, positively Edwardian (though they don't know what that is) outfit.

But then again, they're used to their resident magician's antics by now.

* * *

No one was quite sure what happened on the next day- apart from him. He had been quite unlike himself that day- old and torn clothes, and a sack over his back. Well, he _was_ accepting all of his selves as him, right? It was only proper that Captain Grumpypants should be a part of the pantheon as well.

* * *

He finds his old leather jacket in the TARDIS, and goes around saying 'fantastic' a lot. It's about this point that he decides that teaching everyone in the Middle Ages to say 'dude' is a good idea, and holds a meeting to educate everyone on the finer points of linguistics. He does a lot that day- introducing the banana daiquiri is just one of the important things that takes up his attention.

* * *

"Allons-y!" he yells, dashing across the lawn with a giggling blonde six-year-old on his back. She holds tightly to the collar of his trench coat, even as a horde of other children grab hold of his legs, pulling him to the ground. "All right, all right, I submit! No more!"

They all lie on the ground, scattered in a still-laughing heap.

"Mr Magician," says one of the boys. "Can you stay forever?"

His smile drops suddenly, and he ruffles the boy's hair fondly. "I don't think so."

There's a chorus of _aww_ s and he hold up his hands to placate them. "But there's still time to have fun! How do you feel about defeating the majestic and mighty monster that's terrifying the countryside?" He leans in close. "I hear that he eats the hearts of little boys!"

"We'll save you!" declares a tiny brown-haired girl who reminds him oddly of Clara, and she charges directly at him with determination. He had only just begun to stand up, but she somehow manages to bring him the ground.

"Hey!" he complains mildly as everyone piles onto him again. "I said it was a ferocious monster- not me!"

* * *

He hosts the earliest known example of a disco the next day, and he demonstrates the Drunken Giraffe, all the while wearing a jaunty bow tie. He feels almost like his old self for once, and wonders if Clara would prefer him this way- but dismisses it, because he can't afford to feel guilty about anything right now.

* * *

The next day, he prepares to meditate, until Bors changes his mind, and decides to party instead.

It was probably a better choice. And he wasn't going to use that tank for anything else anyway.

 **The End**


End file.
